February
by Katerina1
Summary: It's been three years today...JS. Mention of MS.
1. Prologue

**Title: **February

**Author:** Katerina

**Rating: **PG

**Pairing:** J/S, of course… with mentions of M/S

**Disclaimer:** They're really not mine. Trust me.

**Author's Notes:** This has (wait for it) plot! Or at least an attempt at it. It takes place just after the end of Season 2, and goes into and alternate universe after that. Please read and review, and I promise I'll love you all forever…

**Prologue**

She wakes to the soft shush of waves on the shore, and the faint taste of salt on her lips.

Pale yellow light is sneaking through the blinds by her bed, and she judges that it is a little after six. Early, but not too early when she is in bed every night by nine.

She stretches once, twice, then slides out from under the covers and pads towards the door. The early morning air is soft and cool on her skin as she steps out onto the porch, but there is a certain brightness to the sky that hints at a hot day to come.

It is early February. She can't quite get used to that.

She takes another deep breath of the salt air, leaning on the weathered porch railing and raising her face to the slight breeze. From here, she can see across the short stretch of scrubby grass that fills the space from the house to the edge of the bluff. The ground drops away sharply after that, but not for long; ten feet down lies golden sand all the way to the sea.

Every morning, she picks her way down the steps worn into the rock until she reaches the sand, and begins to walk. Sometimes she stays close to the cliff face as it gradually melts into dunes; other times she strays closer to the surf, paddling and getting her cuffs wet. She always walks towards the jetty, and the tiny town clustered around it, and she knows why: if he were to come, that would be the first place she would see him. She imagines it, most mornings, as she walks. She sees him pause at the edge of the town's main street, just where it runs past the stone retaining wall by the sand. She watches silently as he surveys the ocean, and then takes several careful steps onto the beach. At this point she always smiles, because she can't help but imagine him in his black suit, his shoes filling with sand. In her head, though, he is not bothered as he looks slowly from left to right, from the jetty to where she stands in the water or by the dunes. He sees her, finally, and he smiles.

That's where she stops walking, right before she reaches the place he should be standing. She stops, and waits for a moment, scanning the beach unconsciously for a figure in black. He's not there, and she's not surprised as she turns away and makes for home.

It's probably not entirely healthy, she thinks.

XXXXX

It's February, and in New York the snow is falling, the wind is howling and the forecasters are having a field day.

In his office on the twenty-second floor of the FBI building, Jack Malone is entirely oblivious.

The file in front of him is not new, and it is not thick, either. Dated some three years previously, it holds nothing more than a dog-eared photograph, several pages of typed interviews, and a character summary for the file's subject.

It is February the fourteenth today, and this is how Jack has celebrated it for three years.

One elbow propped on his desk, hand supporting his head and clamping the phone to his ear at the same time, he allows his eyes to drift closed as he listens to the endless repeat of classical 'hold' music. By the end of the day – it's always the same – he finds himself humming Beethoven's Fifth on the subway as he travels home; for a long time now, that piece of music has been inextricably linked with her.

Unfortunately, his days spent on fruitless calls and searches, his hours poured away in front of that file, are not limited to Valentine's.

It's probably not entirely healthy, he thinks.

A sharp knock on the door startles him, and he jerks upright, eyes flying open as he nearly drops the phone.

"Come in," he calls, cutting off both Beethoven's Fifth and his hopes mid-stream as he replaces the handset.

It's Vivien, looking cautious, sad and worried all at once, as she always does when she knows he's looking at the file.

"We've got a lead on the Anderson case," she says, and waits.

With a sigh, he nods and stands. With careful, almost gentle movements, he shuts the manila folder on Samantha Spade's smiling face, and locks it safely in his desk drawer.

End  
Prologue


	2. Chapter 1

**Title: **February

**Author:** Katerina

**Rating: **PG

**Pairing:** J/S, of course… with mentions of M/S

**Disclaimer:** They're really not mine. Trust me.

**Author's Notes:** Thanks to Mariel for posting. The reference to Sam needing a smoke in this chapter comes from her fantastic story, Smoke – I didn't mean to steal it, it just sort of fit.

**Chapter One**

_July, 2003._

This is how it starts…

_He was pretty sure she was sleeping with Martin. It put an odd… spin on things, really, because here he was, ostensibly free for the first time in too many years, and she was sleeping with somebody else._

His subordinate, _his mind supplied, and he wondered just how much more of an ass he could be._

_Things were fine when he left for Chicago, to help the girls and Marie settle in and maybe to convince her to let him stay. That plan was abandoned pretty quickly, however, once Marie politely but firmly booted him out after a week. So he returned to New York, craving the comfort it always gave, and found things completely screwed up._

_Sam was sleeping with Martin. He could tell from the moony-eyed looks, the blushes, the meaningful glances. _

_Unfortunately, they weren't from Sam._

_He'd never truly realized what a dope Martin was._

_Jack came across her in the break room, a week after he'd returned to work. She was staring into a mug of coffee, watching the swirls of creamer in the dark liquid._

"_Sam?"_

_She jumped, startling him and sloshing a hot, milky river across the table. She looked from him to the spill and back, bewildered; he smiled slightly, and collected a handful of napkins from a nearby counter._

"_Sorry." His voice was intentionally softer, because he could almost see the pounding of her heart under her shirt._

_She shook her head quickly, gathering her wits. "I was thinking." She smiled slightly, offering it as if expecting it to be thrown back in her face. _

"_Must've been deep," he returned, dumping soaked napkins in the bin. She merely shook her head again, recrossed her legs, and began picking at her cuticles._

_She looked like she desperately needed a smoke._

_He took the seat opposite her, and finally managed to meet her eyes. When he did, she seemed to deflate._

"_Yeah," he answered the unspoken question. "I know."_

_She nodded, slowly, biting her lip._

"_Jack, I…" She stopped then, and gave a little half-sigh. Her look was part guilt, part sorrow, and she let him drink his fill of it before she left._

End Chapter One


	3. Chapter 2

**Title: **February

**Author:** Katerina

**Rating: **PG

**Pairing:** J/S, of course… with mentions of M/S

**Disclaimer:** They're really not mine. Trust me.

**Author's Notes:** Okay, sorry for the delay. I'm lazy, and I have no excuse ;-) . Anyway, here 'tis, and once again thanks to Mariel for posting and feedback!

**Chapter Two**

After her walk, safely back in her little shack, she digs through the contents of her fridge for breakfast. It is, uncharacteristically, full of food; she likes shopping now that she has the time for it, and spends too many hours a week at the local supermarket. It doesn't have the variety she is used to, but everything is stunningly fresh, the produce of nearby farms. Today, she cooks herself bacon and eggs, and serves them on toast made from homemade bread.

Well, not _her_ homemade, her neighbor Meredith is the one who deals with that, but homemade all the same.

Really, all she misses is decent coffee. Sometimes, she dreams of Starbucks.

XXXXX

Jack catches a cab from the office to his apartment, when he would usually take the subway. But the weather is a little too wild even for him, and he remembers how Sam used to hate the cold.

The file is burning a hole in his briefcase.

He pays the cabbie with a hurried handful of bills, calculating the tip and adding a bit more with the ease of long practice. He moves quickly through the lobby, past the idle doormen, and takes the elevator to his floor, tapping his foot with every stop and delay.

Opening his door, he shucks shoes, coat and scarf as he flicks the light switch; thankfully, the heat has been on most of the day and the tiny apartment is toasty warm.

Briefcase in one hand, he tugs his tie loose and drapes it over the back of a chair as he passes. The case gets left on the table as he heads into the kitchen, where he brews a pot of coffee. He'll need it before the night is out.

XXXXX

An hour later, and papers cover the surface of the table. He has collected his own, private, file from the tiny safe in his bedroom, and as he slouches against the couch, legs splayed before him, he opens it carefully.

There is no photo in this file, no statements on official FBI letterhead. Instead, lined pages are covered in his own scrawl, black and bold on cheap cream.

It is a list of dates, a few key comments beside them. There are a dozen here, for now; he adds them as he remembers.

On these pages, he has noted every strange thing Sam did in the eight months before she disappeared.

Oddly, there are no moments listed before she-

He cuts that thought off, flat. He does not think about Him, ever.

July 2003 is the first on the list. September of that year is the second.

XXXXX

_September 2003._

_Jack watched her, and she knew it. Outwardly, as far as he could see, it didn't seem to affect her. She was quiet, oddly so, her usual sharp tongue well hidden, but she never reacted to his scrutiny. Martin was not so lucky; he blushed, and was awkward, and sometimes looked at Jack, if he was feeling brave, with a hint of challenge in his eyes._

_There was ownership there, too; Jack saw it in the way Martin brushed his hand against Sam's, or leant into her space, or hovered while she prepared to leave at night._

_Jack spotted it, and knew it for what it was. He knew, because once he'd done the same things._

_But Sam…_

_She didn't welcome it, or reject it. She was absolutely passive. And it drove him nuts._

_So nuts, in fact, that he didn't notice what he was looking for; a pair of chocolate eyes flicking his way every time Martin came near._

_However, he noticed well enough when he came upon Sam sitting in his office when he arrived early one morning._

_She was systematically shredding a Kleenex when he opened the door, and she jumped at the sound._

"_Sam?"_

_She looked up, her face oddly white even though her eyes were calm._

"_Jack. I just… do you have a minute?"_

_He nodded, settled in the chair behind the desk, and waited._

_She didn't speak._

_He still waited, knowing she would crack before he did._

"_It's… oh, God," she whispered at last, proving him right. "Jack, I know you know about… that." He flinched slightly, and she hurried on, "I have to tell you. It's about him. He-"_

_And then she stopped. After a second, she shook her head. "Forget it," she said, and left. He didn't press her to stay. There was no reason to, then._

End

Chapter 2


	4. Chapter 3

**Title: **February

**Author:** Katerina

**Rating: **PG

**Pairing:** J/S, of course… with mentions of M/S

**Disclaimer:** They're really not mine. Trust me.

**Author's Notes:** This chapter is a short one, but hopefully it will shed a little more on the story. The lyrics at the beginning are not mine; they belong to Kavisha Mazzella, from the song _Big Blue Above_. Also, thanks to everyone who has reviewed – see, you do get results if you do! And, as always, extra thanks to Mariel, for posting.

**Chapter Three**

_I saw you cast your net up to the sky_

_You're catching the words as they fly_

_Spray them with black ink on a white page_

_Wrap them and bind them with your joy and grace._

She has no dishwasher here, but she relishes the task of washing up; it is a smooth, simple domesticity that she has never experienced before. In the past she hated it; now, it's not so bad, really, because it isn't wasting time she should be spending elsewhere.

The last of the breakfast dishes cleared away, she rubs moisturizer into her hands and takes a seat at her laptop. A few clicks open the file, and she reads over the last lines on the page carefully. She knows exactly where she wants to go; now, the adventure is getting there.

She waits a few moments, and the computer hums patiently as she decides. Then, lifting her hands, she places her fingers on the keys and begins to type.

There is something very pure about this, about siphoning the voices and images in her head onto the page, pinning them there in stark black and glowing white. This is all the excitement she needs now, living in the unwritten pages while sitting in her tiny yellow and cream living room.

XXXXX

The clock is ticking inexorably towards midnight, and the coffee pot is long empty. The piles of paper in front of Jack seem smaller this year, as if the evidence is visibly shrinking along with the chance of finding her.

He has ticked off more of the handwritten dates now, carefully reviewing each of the incidents in his head, remembering every detail, ringing them dry in his search for clues.

Unfortunately, there is not much else to go on. That, oddly, is the only thing that gives him comfort; Sam knew what they would look for, and it isn't there, so she must have left by choice and hidden her tracks. It means she wasn't hurt.

Unfortunately, it also means she didn't want to be found.

Alone in his tiny apartment, Jack Malone struggles to focus on his task. The next date is exact: November 27.

XXXXX

_27 November, 2003._

_It was nine o'clock in the morning, and she hadn't shown up for work. Jack was just wondering who the hell _he_ was going to call if she didn't show up at all, when his cell phone rang._

_The line was crackly, but he could hear her, echoing as if she were at the bottom of a tin bath._

"_Jack?"_

"_Sam. Where are you?" He managed to keep most of the concern out of his voice._

_She ignored his question, and he wasn't sure if it was intentional or if the line had dropped out._

"_I won't be in today," she said, and her tone was absolutely flat. "I'm not well. I'll see you tomorrow."_

"_Sam? What-"_

_And then a dial tone._

_Later, he had no choice but to offer Sam's vague excuse to the team, and they took it without question. But Jack, who had heard her voice, didn't find it so easy._

_He could have been imagining it, but it seemed as though Martin avoided his eyes all day._

XXXXX

Back in his apartment, Jack's own eyes are growing sore, and he blinks quickly to clear them.

There is a reason that particular date is etched in his mind, when others are only vague suggestions, early or late in a particular month. It is because, when Sam returned to work the next day, she sported a badly hidden bruise along one arched cheekbone.

She'd told him that she'd walked into a door.

**End Chapter Three.**


	5. Chapter 4

**Title: **February

**Author:** Katerina

**Rating: **PG

**Pairing:** J/S, of course… with mentions of M/S

**Disclaimer:** They're really not mine. Trust me.

**Author's Notes:** You've probably already noticed, but the timelines between the two locations don't really match up. They're not supposed to; it's more of a creative link than an actual one. As always, thanks to my reviewers, and especially to Mariel, for posting and previewing.

Also, any Australian readers may notice characters and locations in this chapter as being borrowed from the ABC drama, 'SeaChange'. I emphasise the _borrowed_; they are not mine, and I'm not making a profit. Promise.

**Chapter Four**

The sun is low in the sky before she comes up against an objective clause, and loses.

With a yawn, she leans back in her chair, stretching her arms over her head, catlike. It is nearly half past six, and probably time to finish before her spine fuses into a single lump.

She stands, stretching again as she wanders out onto the porch. The light is beginning to mellow, streaking the sea with pale orange. She looks back towards the kitchen, chewing her lip as she decides what to do about dinner. She doesn't feel like cooking tonight, and anyway, she has the odd urge to do _something_ to mark the date.

XXXXX

As usual, most of the town has gathered at the pub; of course, most of the town is defined as about fifty people, so she doesn't find it that difficult to wind her way towards the bar.

She perches on a stool between two men who she knows slightly; they nod affably, and she smiles as she settles in. It's comforting to know their interest lies in beer and the football scores, and that her presence causes only a minor ripple among them.

Meredith, her very own bread-baking neighbor, is behind the bar; she owns the pub, and runs it with the help of her partner, Harold. There is some sort of scandal there, but she's not considered enough of a local to be told. Scattered around the room are the cream of the town's social scene: the magistrate, Laura, and her partner Max, who edits the local newspaper; Angus, the court clerk, with his wife Karen, who is pregnant again; Meredith and Harold, of course; and Bob Jelly, local real estate agent and political hopeful, holding court over a rapt audience consisting of his wife, Heather.

Meredith catches sight of her sitting at the bar, and hurries over. In her hands, she clutches a menu and a glass of lemonade; she deposits both on the counter with a hurried smile, and departs again. It's obviously a busy night.

She is content to sit and sip her lemonade as she surveys the menu; deciding on the chicken salad, she wonders if she might treat herself to a glass of wine.

After all, she does have an occasion to mark.

XXXXX

In snowy New York, Jack Malone has changed from coffee to scotch. He knows he'll probably regret it tomorrow, but he needs a little anesthetic to help him through the night.

Blinking increasingly blurry eyes, he moves more quickly through the remaining dates. They have only brief notes beside them, and he knows that this is not because Sam's life had returned to normal, but because she had learned to hide better.

XXXXX

_December, 2003._

_Sam began to refuse to meet his eyes. He wasn't sure, but it looked to him as though Martin hovered more possessively than ever._

_She looked tired, too, as if she carried every care she'd ever known on her shoulders. He wanted to ask her how she was sleeping. He never did._

_January, 2004._

_He noticed one morning, as Sam removed her coat in the heated office, that she favored her left arm. He couldn't see any bruises, but he knew from bitter experience that it didn't mean they weren't there._

_Later that week, he was certain he saw her pale when someone mentioned Martin's caring attitude towards those involved in his cases._

_He watched her as she spoke quietly on the phone, and he wondered if she was remembering one of the lessons he'd taught her: the best place to have a private conversation is somewhere crowded, where everyone is too busy to eavesdrop. He moved closer, and she briskly ended her conversation and hung up. Maybe he was going crazy._

_February, 2004._

_She didn't look well. Was he really the only one who noticed her pallor, her jumpiness, the way her collarbones protruded under her sweaters? Was he the only one who saw her hands shake, who caught her smoking desperately at all hours of the day, months after she'd given up? Could no one else feel the tension radiating from her body?_

_She didn't look as if she could go on much longer._

XXXXX

His watch beeps, once, and he comes back to himself with a jerk.

It is midnight.

Carefully, with hands slightly unsteady from the caffeine and scotch, Jack marks off the last date on his list.

_February fourteenth._

She's gone.

XXXXX

She sits on her porch, listening to the gentle wash of the waves. The one glass of wine at the pub was a bad idea; she brought the bottle home with her.

Now she sits quietly, clutching a glass in both hands. The empty bottle rests by her feet. The night is warm, with a soft breeze blowing in from the ocean. If she strains her eyes, she can catch a glimpse of the lighthouse on Brabee Point, and she becomes almost mesmerized by its steady flash, fade, flash, fade rhythm.

The words whisper from her mouth almost without her knowledge, following the pattern of the light.

"My name is Jaime Saint-Claire. I am thirty-one years old. I live in Pearl Bay, Victoria, Australia." She draws a shaky breath. "My name is Jaime Saint-Claire. I am thirty-one years old…"

**End Chapter Four.**


	6. Chapter 5

**Title: **February

**Author:** Katerina

**Rating: **PG

**Pairing:** J/S, of course… with mentions of M/S

**Disclaimer:** They're really not mine. Trust me.

**Author's Notes: **I apologize for my incredible laziness, and thank the readers who asked for more. To try and make it up to you all, this chapter has both plot and length! Thanks to everyone who reviewed – it means so much to know people actually want to read this! As always, thanks to Mariel, for posting and kind words.

**Chapter Five**

On February 15, it snows in Washington DC.

Martin Fitzgerald is cold, and he shivers in his heavy coat even once he is inside, out of the foul weather. He stands quietly in the elevator, watching the numbers light their way to the 21st floor, and absently brushes several melting flakes from his shoulders.

He feels slightly hung-over. He hopes he isn't getting the flu.

The elevator dings, and he steps out into the plush carpet and polished walnut of his outer office. His success has surpassed even the expectations of his father, who, on his own retirement from the FBI nearly three years ago, had finally insisted Martin make use of his ridiculously expensive education. Martin had dutifully packed up his belongings and, with his degree in political science and a good foundation built on his father's contacts, eventually won a prominent position with the current government.

He felt no loss at leaving the FBI. He had failed his most important assignment, and there was no going back.

Martin spares a nod for the secretary guarding the door to his inner sanctum, and pushes his way inside. He hangs his coat in the small closet by the door, and tucks his gloves into one of the pockets. His scarf is draped neatly over another hanger, and then he turns to his desk. He needs a coffee.

There is one waiting, still steaming, but that is not what catches his attention. There is a brown paper parcel, thick and neatly wrapped, sitting in the middle of his blotter.

His brow wrinkles, and he moves forward. The address is printed on a neat white card, and glued in the exact center of the front of the package.

He relaxes a little. There is only one person he knows who is so methodical, almost to the point of obsessiveness. Martin had begun to fear he would never hear from the man again.

Known only to Martin as Andy, the man had been found after six months away from New York and several very quiet conversations with important people. Martin doesn't know exactly who he is or what he really does; all the information he has is a string of digits, which make up the number of a bank account. Here, Martin deposits an appallingly large sum of money each month. So far, all he has received in return are false alarms.

Martin lowers himself into his leather chair, and runs his fingers delicately over the brown paper. His heart beats faster, as it always does when he hears from Andy, but he tries to slow his breathing. Finally, slowly, he begins to peel away the layers of wrapping.

Several glossy novels fall onto his desk. Martin frowns, and picks them up. He recognizes the titles; they are favorites of his teenaged niece and her friends. On the cover of one is the design of a brass medal; he realizes it is the symbol of a well-known prize for writing.

Surely not…

He opens the first book to a page somewhere past the middle.

_"Love is not kind. It tears us open, exposing the core of our humanity: we would kill for love. We would hurt anyone in our way, and we wouldn't be able to stop ourselves." She stroked her daughter's soft blonde hair. "Love does not make us tender, or kind. It merely makes us ruthless."_

His eyes lift slowly from the page. Was this what she had felt? Was this what she'd _done_?

No. It can't be.

He is used to false leads, which dissolve into nothing as soon as he looks at them. He does not want to believe that this could be it.

Even though…

He reads the passage again, and he can almost hear her soft voice reading the words. There is something undeniably _her_ wafting up from the paper in front of him.

Another page now, this one closer to the end.

_She had wanted to fix it. She had tried so hard, giving her heart and her soul towards something that would never be right. Now, she had merely succeeded in destroying herself._

Very, very carefully, Martin closes the book. He flips briefly through the others; they are not love stories, per se, but books about youth and dreams and pain.

They are hers.

His breathing is shaky, pulling at a tight chest. Perhaps he is getting sick. He draws a hand across his eyes; it, too, is trembling. His eyes swim for a moment, and then focus on the one part of the package he has missed.

Half-hidden under the brown paper, it is a photograph of a beautiful, blonde woman as she leaves a white house. She is oddly older than he remembers, but then he recalls the lines around his own eyes, and smiles, ruefully. On the back of the photo, printed on a card identical to the one on the parcel itself, are the words: _Pearl Bay, Victoria, Australia_.

All Martin's breath leaves his lungs in one moment. He looks from the photograph to the books, then back. Should he…?

_Love is not kind._

Yes.

_I want to show you, Samantha._

He reaches for the phone.

**End Chapter Five.**


	7. Chapter 6

**Title: **February

**Author:** Katerina

**Rating: **PG

**Pairing:** J/S, of course… with mentions of M/S

**Disclaimer:** I think we all know this by now…

**Author's Notes:** Once again, I apologise for the delay. Hopefully, the next few chapters should come more easily as my life settles down a bit. This chapter was a hard one for me to write, and I'm not sure if I liked the way it turned out, so… please let me know what you think!

And, as always, thanks to Mariel for posting, prodding and feedback!

**Chapter Six**

Jack Malone watches himself dress in the long mirror on his closet door. He is red-eyed after four hours' sleep, and he's not sure if he's entirely sober.

He doesn't really care.

His broad, calloused fingers are steady and surprisingly quick on the tiny buttons of his shirt, but they falter slightly as he begins to knot his tie.

First, he remembers his mother teaching him how to tie it when he was eight. He was going to a wedding, he thinks… or a funeral. He's not sure.

Then he remembers all the times Marie fussed over a perfect Windsor knot for her work parties. He'd stand, waiting and patient, neat in a dark suit until everything was just right, and then he'd kiss her. He thinks that the first time she objected to this, because it smudged her lipstick, it was the beginning of the end.

His breath slows now, almost stopping as he finally remembers slim fingers with impractical red nails tugging impatiently at the black silk. He thinks that's when he started to wear black all the time, because he liked to remind them both of how good it looked, twined around her pale wrists and delicate hands as she lay in his bed.

He blinks, and then she's gone.

Across the room, his cell is ringing. He ignores it, and continues to dress for work.

XXXX

By the time he arrives, there are five missed calls listed on the display, all from the same number. Jack notes the interstate prefix, and decides he'd rather not know what's going on.

There is a package waiting on his desk. The red and white stripes denote a federal government courier, but before he can take a closer look, Viv arrives at his office door.

"Messages for you," is all she says, but he notes and distantly appreciates the worry in her eyes. He nods, responding in the unspoken way only a few people understand, and takes the sheaf of papers from her hand.

The number on four of them is the same as the one on his cell.

He shoots Viv a curious glance, and she shrugs.

"Some politician's office." She turns her eyes to the package. "That came for you about ten minutes ago."

He nods again, she offers a smile, and then he is alone.

There is a return address on the package label, and as he reads it, Jack's mouth tightens and his shoulders tense. He rips it open, with no consideration for the careful packaging, and stares at the three novels that fall onto the desk.

His cell rings again, and he is suddenly and unreasonably furious.

"What?" he snaps into the receiver, and enjoys a moment of vicious pleasure at the silence from the other end.

Then, quietly but not as tentative as it once would have been, comes a voice Jack had hoped never to hear again.

"Jack? It's Martin. Martin Fitzgerald. Did you get the stuff?"

Jack closes his eyes as he listens to Martin's explanations. The lead weights of exhaustion are pulling at him, but he's not sure if it's because he hasn't had enough sleep, or if it's… just because.

"Why are you telling me?" Jack cuts in, stopping Martin dead. There is an odd pause, but Jack doesn't wait for a response. His eyes snap open again as anger and despair and failure take over. "You found her. You put her through hell and chased her away, and now you've found her, and so help me God, if you lay another finger on her I will – "

Martin's voice is sharper and more commanding than Jack could have imagined.

"Jack, I don't want the old argument. If you're not going to go to her, then I will." Martin draws a deep breath. "I just want her to know it's not all selfishness."

"What - " Jack begins, but there is nothing but a dial tone in his ear.

Slowly, he reaches out his free hand and picks up a photograph from under the books. It becomes slightly blurred as he tries to focus on it, but he can tell she looks just the same.

Very carefully, he sets it down, and then dials the number written on the message slips in Viv's almost indecipherable hand. On the second ring, a secretary answers.

"It's Jack Malone," he replies to her professional greeting. Oddly, his throat is tight. "Please tell Martin Fitzgerald I'm going."

_**End Chapter Six**_


	8. Chapter 7

**Title: **February

**Author:** Katerina

**Rating: **PG

**Pairing:** J/S, of course… with mentions of M/S

**Disclaimer:** They're really not mine. Trust me.

**Author's Notes:** I am so sorry this has taken so long. Real life is the worst – and to top it off, Channel 9 Australia has stopped airing WaT… so there goes my inspiration. Anyway, I hope this is worth the wait! Oh, and the timelines are a bit dodgy in this chapter, but just work with me, okay:-)

As always, thanks to Mariel for her posting skills. And to Sunwalker, who threatened all sorts of horrible things if I didn't update (such as the Macarena, the Bustop, etc).

**Chapter Seven**

Jack is three-quarters of the way across the Pacific Ocean when the adrenaline finally disappears, and the reaction sets in. He takes a deep breath, trying to relax as his hands tremble on the tray in front of him. He tucks them between his knees, out of sight, out of mind.

He tries to focus on the large screen at the front of the cabin, where his plane's route is marked out on a computer-  
generated map. The tiny icon is almost motionless in the expanse of blue. Jack breathes, and watches it until his eyes begin to blur.

It's almost like he's going nowhere.

XXXX

The sun is painfully bright when she wakes, spearing into her eyes through open blinds. She winces, turning over, hiding her face in white cotton.

She very seriously regrets drinking last night.

Trying to ignore the light, and the raucous calls of the seagulls outside, she concentrates on darkness and sleep.

XXXX

It is late afternoon when she wakes, finally. The sun has moved to the other side of the house, leaving her room in shadow. She stares at the white ceiling, at the slow revolutions of the fan she does not remember turning on.

Watching the constant spin makes her dizzy, and she desperately wants it to stop.

The fan continues to turn.

Rolling over, she pulls herself from the bed, and makes her way on wobbly legs to the kitchen. The water she pours herself there is cool and sweet, and she drinks two glasses without stopping.

Outside, she can hear the waves, their whispers soft and soothing.

She needs to walk.

XXXX

The taxi skims across the blacktop, disturbingly on the wrong side of the road. Jack keeps waiting for it to meet oncoming traffic before he remembers that here it's the _right_ side. Oddly, that little difference shakes him to the core.

He has been traveling this way for an hour and a half now, and he must be nearly there. He knows the fare will be hell, but he doesn't care. At least it will be cheaper than the last-minute airline ticket.

"Where d'ya want dropping off?" the driver asks, his twang startling Jack. Without his noticing it, they have arrived at a tiny town by the sea. He can hear the waves.

Jack shrugs, and looks about. Buildings are lined up neatly down the main, and almost only road, which runs parallel to the sea. He spots a hairdressers', a real estate agent's, and finally something called the Tropical Star, which at least advertises accommodation.

This can't be right. The Sam he knows spent all her young life dreaming of escaping a place like this.

Useless.

He knew it.

XXXX

In the fresh air, the sea breeze whips at her hair, and the pain finally begins to ease.

She picks her way down the steps worn into the rock until she reaches the sand, and begins to walk. Sometimes she stays close to the cliff face as it gradually melts into dunes; today, she strays closer to the surf, paddling and getting her cuffs wet. She always walks towards the jetty, and the tiny town clustered around it, and she knows why: if he were to come, that would be the first place she would see him. She imagines it as she walks. She sees him pause at the edge of the town's main street, just where it runs past the stone retaining wall by the sand. She watches silently as he surveys the ocean, and then takes several careful steps onto the beach. At this point she always smiles, because she can't help but imagine him in his black suit, his shoes filling with sand. In her head, though, he is not bothered as he looks slowly from left to right, from the jetty to where she stands in the water or by the dunes. He sees her, finally, and he smiles.

She stops there, her hair blowing across her face, sand clinging to her wet feet.

She looks.

She closes her eyes, and when she opens them again, they are full of tears.

This time, he is there.

**End Chapter Seven**


	9. Chapter 8

**Title:** February

**Author:** Katerina

**Rating:** PG

**Pairing:** J/S, of course… with mentions of M/S

**Disclaimer:** Nope. Promise.

**Author's Notes:** This chapter is for all the people who reviewed the last one. By rights, you probably all should have abandoned me because I took so long to update; this is a thank you for sticking by me.

Also, thanks to Mariel. Your support and help is invaluable!

**Chapter Eight**

_She looks just the same._

He stands on the beach that seems to be a thousand miles from anywhere, oblivious of the sand filling his shoes, the wind beating at his tie, and the fact that he is wearing several layers too many for the hot February weather.

Her hair is spilling across her face in long golden curls, and he wants to feel his fingers slide through them again. Then, he wants to trace a hand over her face, slightly tanned with a sprinkle of freckles he has never seen before. He wants to feel her skin, the soft brush of her eyelashes on the sensitive pads of his fingers. He wants to learn her features all over again.

His hands long to trace the outline of her body, the fuller curves he is glad to see after his last impression of her was worrying thinness. He wants to tickle her sand-covered toes to hear the giggle he has imagined for too long.

He wants to kiss her.

_She looks just the same._

XXXXX

She barely recognizes him.

Her eyes are beginning to clear, and now she sees him in the harsh Australian sun that hides nothing. There are too many silver threads in his dark hair, too many fine lines on his face. Shadows are etched under his eyes, and stubble darkens his chin.

She hopes it's not her fault, but at the same time she feels a spark of pleasure, knowing he was worried.

But he looks worried almost to death.

She is not sure, but she thinks his hands might be shaking. There is a slight puffiness around his face, an odd filling-out that she recognizes and does not like.

His eyes are bloodshot.

She wonders if his breath smells of whiskey.

He is watching her, just as carefully as she watches him. There is something desperate about him, something she never saw in all the years she knew him, and something she does not want to see now.

That is what makes her offer him her hand.

"This way," she says.

His palm is hot against hers as they make their way back up the beach, towards the house tucked among the sand dunes.

XXXXX

He looks oddly out of place, sitting in his black suit in the middle of her cream and polished wood kitchen. She pours him a glass of water, and sits opposite him at the table.

There is silence.

He has brought a bag with him, a dark gray tote that sits in the corner by the door. She looks at it, for something to do and to avoid his eyes, and realizes that she herself had little more the first time she stepped through that door.

"Sam," he says, and she starts. No one has called her that in three years.

"Jack," she replies, and in that tiny exchange, she truly, truly realizes for the first time, that they are strangers.

She's not sure she's ready to change that, no matter how much she wants to.

"Would you like something to eat?" she asks instead.

He shakes his head. "No. Look, Sam, I - "

"It's Jaime," she interrupts, and he shakes his head.

"I don't think I can call you that," he murmurs, and she bites her lip.

"Please," she says. "Call me Jaime."

He looks at her for a long, assessing moment. She is not sure if he will refuse.

"Okay," he replies, finally, and she wonders again how much he knows, or suspects. "Okay."

**End Chapter Eight.**


	10. Chapter 9

**Title:** February

**Author:** Katerina

**Rating:** PG

**Pairing:** J/S, of course… with mentions of M/S

**Disclaimer:** Nope. Promise.

**Author's Notes:** Just a warning: things are going to get a little rough. I'm not very good at writing fluff unless the characters work for it. So, while this will be J/S, you're all going to have to be patient.

Oh, and the characters of Rex and Laura belong to Pearl Bay, not me.

And, as always, thanks to Mariel, poster extraordinaire.

**Chapter Nine**

There is someone banging on the door, a welcome interruption from whatever is going on. She sighs in relief, but before she can call out an invitation to enter, a young boy bursts into the room. He is little more than a toddler, and he hurls himself into her arms with undiluted enthusiasm.

For a moment, Jack's breath catches in his throat. _Oh, God…_

"Hello?" a voice calls out, and Sam (because he can't think of her any other way), replies. She continues to cradle the dark-haired, green-eyed boy on her lap.

Jack watches.

"We're in here!"

The woman who enters looks frazzled, like she hasn't slept in a week. She carries a briefcase in one hand, and a child's backpack in the other.

"Rex," she scolds, and then continues in the same breath, "Jaime, I'm so sorry this is short notice – "

She stops, appearing to see Jack sitting at the table for the first time. The woman visibly winces, and then tries to cover with a smile.

"You… sorry. I'll just…"

Sam laughs, her attention on the boy. "It's fine, Laura. I'll be happy to watch him."

Jack exhales, slowly, feeling the muscles in his chest relax. He would never have forgiven her for that.

Laura visibly sags with relief. "Thank God!" She dumps the backpack by the table, kisses the boy and straightens her clothes while she speaks. "I should be done in a few hours. Be a good boy, Rex. Everything's in his bag. I owe you, Jaime!" This last is delivered as Laura disappears at high speed out the door.

Sam laughs, hugging the boy. Rapturous greeting over, he sags against her chest and yawns hugely.

"You tired, Rex?" she asks softly, keeping her attention on the child, not the man at the table. Rex nods, and she smiles as she stands, still holding him close. "Come on, then. You can have a nap on my bed, okay?"

Rex nods again. "Tell me a story?" He yawns over the sentence, and Sam laughs again.

"Okay… but just a little one. My stories can't keep up with you."

Jack watches as they vanish into the back rooms.

XXXXX

When she returns, fifteen minutes later, he is busily rooting through her cupboards. She stops short.

"What are you looking for?"

He barely glances at her. "I need a drink."

She leans against the doorframe. "There's juice and milk in the fridge, water – "

He wrenches open another cupboard. "Not that kind of drink."

"Jack?" He looks at her, and she steps delicately into the room, ready to pounce or flee, catlike.

"What?"

"I don't think you should."

He stares. "What?"

She refuses to meet his eyes, but speaks anyway. "I thought, maybe… you seem like you might have been… a little too much."

He closes the cupboard door, very carefully and deliberately. "You think I'm a drunk?"

"No!" She shifts feet. "I just thought you might have been drinking a bit more than - "

He cuts her off, and his tone is low and furious. "You think? You think I've been drinking too much? You disappeared off the face of the earth for three Goddamn years, Sam. How did you expect me to react?" He ignores her wince at his use of her given name, and begins to close the distance between them. "You want me to act like you? To pretend nothing happened?"

"I didn't - " she protests, but he's not going to let her finish.

"I can't do that, Sam. I spent three years in _hell_, not knowing if you were alive, dead, lying in some hospital somewhere. So excuse me if I drank, excuse me if I did whatever helped to numb the pain. I suffered, Sam, and then Martin tells me you're here, sunning yourself on the beach, and I travel halfway round the fucking planet to see you, and what do I get? Nothing!"

His voice has risen to a shout, scaring her, and she looks frantically towards the back room.

"Jack, don't! You'll wake Rex."

His dark eyes bore into her for a long moment, and then he forces himself to take a breath.

"Sam, please. I need to know. I thought it was Martin who drove you away. But it wasn't, was it?"

She shakes her head, and he can see her shoulders beginning to shake, tears dripping down her face to make dark splotches on her blue shirt. "No," she says, so softly he has to strain to hear.

The last of his breath leaves his body in a shudder. "Sam… was it me?"

The silence strings out between them, delicate and cold as spun glass. She is crying harder, now, but silently. Her voice, when she finally speaks, is shaking and hoarse with something he cannot name.

"Yes," she says. "Yes."

**End Chapter Nine.**


	11. Chapter 10

**Title:** February

**Author:** Katerina

**Rating:** PG

**Pairing:** J/S, of course… with mentions of M/S

**Disclaimer:** Nope. Promise.

**Author's Notes:** Thanks to Mariel, as always, for posting and nudging.

**Chapter Ten**

The moment the words pass her lips, she regrets them.

She regrets them as she watches emotions she cannot name flicker across Jack's face.

She regrets them as he finally looks away from her, trying to concentrate on something, anything else.

And she regrets them as he turns to leave.

"Jack, wait." He does not stop. "I didn't mean it like that, please." He will not stop. Please, God, make him stop. "Jack, I love you."

He stops.

XXXXX

Ten minutes later, she has dried her eyes, and he has poured them cold glasses of juice. They are sitting in the kitchen once more, in a mirror image of an hour before.

"Can we start again?" she asks, quietly. He nods. After a moment, she speaks again, voice slightly rough from her tears. "I'm glad you found me."

"I didn't," he says flatly, hiding his guilt. "It was Fitzgerald."

She stiffens slightly, and focuses on the frosted glass in front of her. "Martin, you mean," she corrects him firmly. He raises his eyebrows at her, and she understands the unspoken question. "I always think of Fitzgerald as his father."

There is an infinitesimal pause before the last word, and Jack notices but does not mention it. Instead, he circles the pause with a question, just as he would do in an interview, so she doesn't realize he is honing in.

"Did you know he left, not that long after you did?"

She glances up. "Martin?"

"No," he says, eyes on hers. "Martin stayed for nearly a year. I meant his father."

Something comes over her then, an odd calmness that releases the tension of three years.

"No, I didn't know," she says, sounding almost like the old Sam. "But I'm glad."

She smiles, just slightly, Mona Lisa-like. Her fingers relax on the glass in her hands, and the wrinkle between her brows softens.

He is caught by the transformation, drawn in and lost. He has seen her look this unguarded before, but only when they were alone, curled between the sheets of her bed.

_Now._

"Why did you leave?"

She jumps slightly, the unexpected question catching her off-guard. She thought they had come to an unspoken agreement; he would not ask why she had left, and they would not talk about what she had said to make him stay.

That was how they had always worked in New York.

"This isn't New York anymore," he says, as if reading her thoughts. "I need to know."

"I… can't," she says. "Please. Not yet."

He nods, accepting this with more ease than she expected.

"Then why can't I call you by name?"

He watches her as she chews on her lip, sorting through what is safe to tell him. Finally, she takes a deep breath.

"Samantha Spade did things I'm not proud of," she says, voice low. "I don't want to remember what she did. I'm not her anymore."

He wants more than anything to ask what those things are, but he does not. Will not. She will tell him when she's ready.

Now, he just wants to help.

He had known, when he left New York on the first flight he could make, that she must have left for a reason. He thought, at the time, that he knew what that reason was, but…

"Was it Martin?" he asks, and she looks away. "Did he hit you?" he presses.

"No," she says, not surprised at the question. "It wasn't him."

"Then who ­- "

"Please, Jack," she interrupts. "Don't."

So he doesn't, and they sit in silence in her sunlit kitchen.

He should have realized it wouldn't be easy. He is not sure what he was expecting: a joyous reunion, taking her back home… He should have known it wouldn't be that easy.

He remembers: _Love is not kind._

She still loves him.

There is something there, below the careful facade she has created, something dark and painful, eating away at the woman who had once been Samantha Spade.

Now she has just as many demons as he.

He wants to make it right. He doesn't know if he can.

**End Chapter Ten**


	12. Chapter 11

**Title:** February

**Author:** Katerina

**Rating:** PG

**Pairing:** J/S, of course… with mentions of M/S

**Disclaimer:** Nope. Promise. And Laura, Max et al belong to ABC TV, and _SeaChange_.

**Author's Notes:** Thanks to Marielfor all her posting work, and to Sun-walker for all the nudging.

Chapter Eleven 

Early evening is arriving, and the air is finally starting to cool. A now wide-awake Rex follows her around the house as she opens blinds and windows, allowing the sea breeze to brush away the day's heat.

She feels a little like the tiny Australian marsupials, emerging from her burrow into the cool night.

From the rear of the house, she can hear the shower running as Jack washes away the grime of twenty-four hours travel.

She's not sure if she can believe Jack's news. Already, she feels lighter, freer than she has in years.

A knock on the front door interrupts her thoughts, and she turns to Rex.

"That will be your Mom, Rex. You want to go answer it?"

The boy clings to her hand, suddenly shy, and she grins. "Okay, honey. We'll go together."

In fact, it is not Laura at the door, but Rex's father.

"How'd ya be?" he asks, his standard greeting in a broad Aussie accent. She has known Max for too long to be taken in, though. He's far smarter than that greeting leads people to believe, which is probably why he does it.

She hands over his suddenly exuberant son with a smile. "Not bad, Max. Where's Laura?"

He shrugs. "Work, probably. She left a note for me to stop by and get Rex." He hugs the boy clinging to his neck. "Did you have a good time with Jaime?"

Rex nods, all enthusiasm, and begins to tell his father about the 'very special' story Jaime is saving just for him. She can't help but laugh. Max eyes her.

"You're in a good mood. Something to do with your mystery visitor?"

She blinks, surprised for a moment. She has forgotten Pearl Bay's infallible telegraph system.

"Let me guess," she says. "Laura may have mentioned something to Meredith, who then passed it on to everyone in the pub, who _then_ – "

"Something like that," Max replies. He looks her over again, noting the brightness in her eyes, the added width of her smile, and can't help but smile back. "Take care," he says, and carries his frantically waving son off the porch. She waves back until they turn the corner in the track, and are lost from sight.

Taking a deep breath of salt air, she leans against the salt-bleached wooden railings of her verandah, and watches the summer sun paint the sea with strips of crimson and orange. The waves are oily and low, as if the heat of the day has sapped all their energy. A gull circles low with a raucous cry, and she follows its flight inland.

In this indefinable peace, she lets Jack's news wash over her, keeping time with the lazy waves. For the first time, she allows herself to believe it.

_He's gone._

_It worked._

_I'm free._

She takes a long breath of cooling air, taking in the faint tang of salt.

_I'm really free._

XXXXX

When Jack emerges from the bathroom, dressed but with his hair still dripping on his neck, it is oddly quiet in the house. The windows have been opened, letting in fresh breaths of ocean air, but of her there is no sign.

His bare feet are silent on the wooden floor as he makes his way through the darkening house, one hand trailing lightly on the white painted walls. She is not anywhere inside.

He spots her through the kitchen door, sitting on the edge of the wooden steps leading down from the porch. The screen door squeaks slightly as he opens it, but she does not turn. He knows she knows he is there, but neither of them speaks as he takes up a position next to her.

"Rex gone?" he asks finally, voice hushed over the soft breath of the waves. She nods, but does not reply. He shifts, and on the narrow step their shoulders brush. He feels her sigh.

"Sam?" he asks, and she turns her head to face him. He starts at the shine of tears on her cheeks. He reaches out a hand, gently wiping them away. "What - ? " He begins, but stops as smiles.

Sam has always smiled with her whole face. He knows this, remembers countless of these smiles for him, before things got bad.

And he has never, ever been able to resist smiling back.

She looks so happy now, as if the past had gone elsewhere, where it could never be touched again. She is young, and fresh, reminding him of something he lost long ago, something he thought he'd never get back.

And that look is for him.

He does not protest, although he knows he probably should, as she gently reaches out to touch his face. Her fingers trace over the freshly shaved skin, feeling lines and subtle puffiness where there should be none.

His skin reveals the secret she has already suspected, but this time she only feels acceptance, and an odd sort of peace.

"I didn't want to do this to you," she whispers. "I wanted to help."

"It doesn't matter anymore," he replies. "We're here now."

He will never be sure who starts it, but their lips meet, softly, tentative in the last of the sunlight.

Completeness.

**End Chapter Eleven.**


	13. Chapter 12

Title: February 

**Author:** Katerina

**Rating: **PG

**Pairing:** J/S, of course… with mentions of M/S

**Disclaimer:** They're really not mine. Trust me.

**Author's Notes:** Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed! I'm glad to know you guys are still with me.

Chapter Twelve 

It is a little after midnight when the phone rings. Jack reaches for his cell automatically, before realizing that neither it nor the bedside table is in the right place.

Beside him, Sam heaves herself to her feet and staggers into the living room. He rolls over, propping his head on his arms as he listens to her voice.

"Meredith?" she sounds confused. "What is it?" There is a pause. "What?" Now she sounds worried. Jack opens his eyes, staring at the pale ceiling in the dark.

"Is anyone – " She is cut off. "Of course, I'll do everything I can to help."

He hears the quiet beep as she replaces the cordless phone in its holder. There is a soft exhalation of breath, a moment in which he can sense her indecision. Then, bare feet are padding softly across the floor, back to the bedroom. Her clothes rustle slightly as she gathers them from the floor, tugging them on in the dark, quiet so as not to wake him.

Too late.

"Sam?" She stills, standing beside the bed, caught.

"Go back to sleep." Her voice is soft, but slightly husky.

"Sam, what's wrong?" He sits up, and fumbles in the dark for a moment before she takes pity on him and flicks on the bedside lamp. Her face glows creamy pale in the yellow light.

There are tears on her cheeks.

"What is it?" he asks again, gentler this time. And she tells him.

XXXXX

In Pearl Bay, the pub closes at ten o'clock on a weeknight. Sometimes, during a heatwave, it stays open later, because it is one of the few buildings with air-conditioning. On those nights, the lights are kept low, and everything is quiet and exhaustedly still. On those nights, it is too hot to move.

The air is warm tonight, but not unpleasantly so, and light blazes from the Tropical Star's every window. She can see the bustle of people inside, hear the clamor of voices from where she stands in the parking lot.

There is a squad car parked out front, but its lights are off.

Jack follows silently behind her as she crosses to the front doors. She is grateful for the solid mass at her back, nudging her forward. Oddly, she is scared.

XXXXX

Inside, the front bar is a mass of confusion, all color and noise. Jack pauses, taken aback at the almost physical strength of the strident Australian accents; Sam ignores them, and pushes her way through to the center of the crowd. Jack follows quickly, afraid to lose sight of the one known thing in the chaos.

The nucleus of the group seems to consist of red-faced, corpulent man in blue satin pyjama pants and a mustard colored shirt. He is standing next to a whiteboard, sweating visibly as he shouts ignored orders at the crowd around him.

Sam stops at the edge of the throng, uncertain. Jack squeezes in next to her.

"Who's the dope?" he whispers into her ear, and she rolls her eyes.

"Bob Jelly. Big man in the town. He doesn't like me."

"Why not?"

She shrugs. "I think because he _hovered_," and the way she says the word makes Jack know exactly what she means, "until I nearly broke his arm."

He bites back a smile. That's the Sam he knows.

Someone catches Sam's arm through the crush. The woman is in her sixties, with faded ginger hair and slightly motherly air.

"Jaime, you're here."

Sam clasps the woman's hands. "Of course, Meredith." She opens her mouth to continue, but stops at the stern look her neighbor gives her. Very significantly, Meredith's gaze shifts to focus on Jack. Sam bites back a sigh.

"Meredith, this is Jack Malone. He's a… friend from the States. Jack, this is Meredith Monahan, my neighbor."

"Pleased to meet you, Jack." He is surveyed from head to toe, but kindly. "You're quite the talk of the town."

He raises his eyes at Sam, who shrugs. "Thank you," he replies, because it seems appropriate. Meredith smiles.

"And what do you do, Jack?"

For a long moment, Sam wonders whether he will lie, to protect her, to protect himself. He does not.

"I'm with the FBI," he says, and Sam watches Meredith's lips tighten, just slightly. This town holds a lot of secrets, and Meredith knows them all: they are nothing criminal, exactly, but not entirely legal, either.

"Missing persons," he clarifies, and Meredith's eyes widen.

"Well," she says, in her slightly breathy voice. "Isn't that convenient?"

**End Chapter Twelve.**


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